lucky plus one

Fang Jìnyǔ blinked and discovered himself whisked from the summit of Guiwàng Peak all the way down to its base. The Nascent-Soul Patriarch's mastery of instantaneous travel was still as unfathomable as ever. All the post-pill-price drama that had roiled Tianling Sect's markets was now someone else's concern—once the elder spoke on his behalf, even a powerhouse clan like the Qíns dared not touch him.

Still wary, Fang retreated into seclusion to consolidate what he'd learned—and to put his new "cheat-code" skills to use. Two days later he sat cross-legged in a vine-draped grotto on Little River Peak, staring down at the saint-grade Yuan Líng Pill recipe the patriarch had entrusted to him. For the past forty-eight hours he'd poured over every stroke of the formula, teasing out hidden techniques as if solving a riddle.

A gentle chime sounded in the inky cave: [You have unlocked "Saint-Grade Technique 1."] Fang grinned. Of course he could grasp it—his talent was extraordinary. With this insight, he'd leap from a "novice pill-crafter" to a fully-fledged "Ordinary Pill-Master," guaranteeing a minimum 30 percent success rate on any Foundation breakthrough pill he brewed.

And none of it had anything to do with the day before—when his boredom-triggered flare-up of "Charm +1" (earned, oddly enough, by sweeping the courtyard) had so embarrassed him he chose to forget it immediately.

He tapped his gauntleted fingertips on the stone bench. Even though his Kuí-Niu True-Spirit bloodline still slumbered, its dormant thunder-power was already enough to stun any opponent foolish enough to challenge him. A flash of lightning-tinged mana, and foes froze in place—far deadlier than most Golden-Core disciples' tricks.

A flicker at the grotto's mouth drew Fang's eye. A glowing talisman: a Flying-Message Talisman. He summoned it. Xu Jing had broken through Foundation and was inviting him to a "breakthrough banquet"—a feast of shared joy. Fang smirked: what mortals called a class reunion. He tucked the talisman away without reply. Foundation cultivators vanished into seclusion for months at a time; he'd RSVP once his next breakthrough was safely tucked away.

He peeled off one Yuan Líng Pill and pressed it to his tongue. A current of power flared in his veins, and he began the Wind-Thunder Tempering Method—the first stage of the Ten-Directions Xùn-Zhèn Scripture. Over eight days, thunder seeped into every cell of his body. When he opened his eyes again, joy danced in their depths. Without pause, he swallowed a second pill.

The surge of spiritual energy settled around him like a stormcloud, and when it cleared, Fang Jìnyǔ had climbed to Foundation Third Layer. In under three months—while most disciples slogged forward in fits and starts—he'd vaulted two ranks at once.

"This Yuan Líng Pill deserves its name," he murmured, forestalling any lingering doubt. "Three more layers, and Fourth Layer is within reach."

He stood, adjusting his robes, and vowed to brew another batch—tweaking the ingredient list to squeeze out even greater gains. The Ten-Directions Scripture above Second Layer was peppered with bottlenecks, but he'd already seen how pure will plus pill could bypass them.

Stepping into the dawn light, Fang headed for Spirit-Herb Peak to settle a ten-thousand-stone debt… only to recall he actually owed a hundred thousand. He veered toward the Xùn-Peak herb shop instead—then froze as a group of sect disciples blocked him.

"You must be Fang Jìnyǔ," they sneered. Before he could reply, they spat insults and fled. Puzzled but unbothered, Fang shrugged and slipped into the rented alchemy chamber.

The furnace glowed. He stoked it, then tapped the levers in a practiced rhythm. When he cracked open the lid, eight perfect Yuan Líng Pill pearls lay nestled in the ash. Fang's eyes gleamed: this richer formula would carry him straight to Foundation Fourth Layer.

As he reached out, the familiar light of his system interface appeared: [Your months-long plan bears fruit.] [Fortune +1 unlocked.]

Fang Jìnyǔ exhaled, savoring how each revelation—whether from talent, pills, or sheer grit—propelled him toward mastery. The path ahead remained long, but with divine insights and unexpected "cheat codes" at his side, no peak seemed beyond climb.

If you want it expanded into a full 3,000–5,000-word scene—adding richer dialogue, vivid action beats, and deeper character moments—just say which sections to flesh out, and I'll build them into a detailed narrative.

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Fang Jìnyǔ barely had time to register the silent whoosh of power before he reappeared at the foot of Guiwàng Peak. The Nascent-Soul Patriarch's teleportation technique still felt like black magic. Whatever aftermath the price‐war over Foundation Pills had wrought in Tianling Sect's markets, it no longer concerned him. Once the elder had publicly defended him, even the mighty Qín clan dared not lift a finger.

Still, caution was prudent. Fang retreated into seclusion to digest all he'd learned—and to put his newfound "cheat-code" skills to work. Two days later, in a vine-draped grotto on Little River Peak, he set aside the saint-grade Yuán Líng Pill formula. The past forty-eight hours had been a blur of pouring over the patriarch's gift, teasing out every hidden alchemical insight.

A soft chime flickered at the edges of his vision—his internal interface lighting up once more: [Today, your months-long gambit yields a reward.] [Fortune +1 acquired.]

Fang's heart skipped. "Fortune" (qìyùn) was the rarest boon in all of cultivation—no visible aura, no flashy explosions, yet every master craves it. More Fortune meant smoother breakthroughs, serendipitous finds and an invisible tailwind on every endeavor. No wonder he'd been so stingy with his divination ever since his stats had bottomed out.

His mind drifted to Qin Haoyue. If Fortune+1 had just unlocked, perhaps that junior disciple had suffered a misfortune of legendary proportions—precisely what his system needed to trigger luck. Fang allowed himself a wry smile. He'd long suspected that only by someone else's calamity could he siphon off new Fortune.

He rose, curiosity pricking him, and departed his grotto to quietly scout the valley below. Within minutes, he ran into Xu Jing again. The newly‐minted Foundation cultivator's face was alight with gossip.

"Master Fang, you wouldn't believe it," Xu Jing said, voice low so no passing acolyte might overhear. "The Qín family's heir, Qin Haoyue, was in an accident—his cultivation is nearly gone." He leaned closer, eyes sparkling. "Some say it wasn't an accident at all, but your hidden handiwork."

Fang paused mid-step. "I'm flattered," he said dryly, "but also insulted. If I'd wanted him dead, I wouldn't have stopped at crippling him."

Xu Jing's smile wavered. "With that fire-forging spirit sword he wields, you'd need to be at least Seventh Layer Foundation to kill him outright." Fang nodded. He'd heard the same: Qin Haoyue's blade could spit flames, making him a one-man army. More than a dozen disciples had witnessed his display atop the Trial Peak. Killing Qin Haoyue required overwhelming power—or an elaborate plot. Fang had done neither.

With that, he excused himself—no sense lingering on rumors. His demon-quiet departure left Xu Jing blinking after him, torn between relief and disappointment that his idol might not be a ruthless schemer after all.

Next on Fang's agenda was to gather intel on Spirit-Blade Peak—and the young swordswoman Sū Yì'ér who'd suddenly vanished. He knew exactly whom to enlist: Dù Mán'ér, the sharp-eyed girl he'd befriended before going into seclusion.

He found her in a bamboo pavilion near the herb gardens, humming to herself. Fang sank into the bench beside her and spoke quietly of his need. Mán'ér's eyes flicked up, startled. "You want me to be your… informant?"

Fang smiled. "Just find out where Sū Yì'ér went, and why her master flew into a rage."

The girl's expression tightened. "Sū Yì'ér bullied people into joining Spirit-Blade Peak. I refused—until she raved we were kindred spirits and dragged me to meet her circle. I didn't agree to anything." She shrugged, as if that settled it.

Fang nodded and left her to it. He didn't suspect she'd stiff-arm every favor—just that any direct approach would look suspicious. Mán'ér had her own fate-woven path; she'd do things in her time.

True enough, two hours later she returned, cheeks flushed. "She's gone," the girl said simply. "Sū Yì'ér left Tianling Sect weeks ago. Her master—Grandmaster Xī Men—was furious."

Fang raised an eyebrow. "What happened to you?" He noticed a fading red mark on her cheek.

Mán'ér's lip quivered slightly. "Xī Men Jiànyī—Sū Yì'ér's junior brother—slapped me when I asked where she was."

Fang frowned. The surname Xī Men leapt out: Xī Men Jiànyī was the infamous sword‐gifted disciple born with two spirit roots, bonded to a broken sword artifact from childhood—whose cultivation soared far beyond his peers. Quiet, obsessive, utterly devoted to Sū Yì'ér. He'd sworn to call her "senior sister," even though she apprenticed later.

Rumor had it that Xī Men Jiànyī's very presence warped the fate of anyone who grew close to Sū Yì'ér. He didn't need storms of flame: his gaze alone made disciples quake.

And it was this Xī Men who'd struck Mán'ér. That told Fang everything: Sū Yì'ér had departed under duress. He thanked Mán'ér, rewarding her with a rare spirit fragment for her trouble, and sent her on her way.

By dusk, Fang stood alone beneath the blossoming archways of Guiwang Peak. The wind rustled the pagoda leaves overhead as he absorbed the day's findings:

• His Fortune had just ticked upward—likely triggered by Qin Haoyue's downfall. • Rumors flew of an assassination plot he hadn't engineered. • Sū Yì'ér had slipped away, pursued by her jealous junior brother. • The Xu Shu Patriarch's gift of saint-grade alchemy formula and True-Element Fruits left him with boundless potential—if he chose to use it.

With a wry grin, Fang tapped his talisman belt and whispered to the night: "Tomorrow, Fourteenth Spell of the Celestial Furnace." His lantern glowed brighter, the granite mountains echoing his vow: no summit lay beyond his reach.

And as the first stars blinked awake, one thing was certain—wherever Sū Yì'ér fled, Fang Jìnyǔ would follow.